th it; but
all the same, every place we came to had its beauties of some kind or
another. Now it was a noisy stream leaping from the rocks in a feathery
cascade; at another time, a grove full of curious orchids. Every now
and then some lovely butterfly would start from flower or damp spot in
the openings, but it was of no use to chase them then, my uncle said,
for we had no means of preserving them.

"Let's collect, Nat," he said, "and make a splendid set of cases of
birds and insects; but let's have no wanton destruction. I hate to see
birds shot except for a purpose."

"We shall have to look out, uncle," I said, laughing, "for it is hard
enough work to walk on this ground; I don't know how we shall run."

In fact, when we got back to our hut, after shooting a couple more
pigeons, our shoes were showing already how sharp the rocks were that
formed a great part of the ground over which we tramped.

I almost wondered at my uncle shooting two more pigeons, as we had
already a couple, but I found out the reason when we reached home, as we
called it, to find that everything was in its place; no one apparently
having entered the hut, from which our black guide now took his spear,
and without another word hurried away.

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.

FEEDING IN THE WILDERNESS.

"I hope Master Ebony is not offended," said my uncle, wiping his face.
"Perhaps it is only his way. Now, Nat, get some sticks and make a good
fire, while I lay the cloth and cook. That's the evil of being alone,
we have to prepare and cook for ourselves; but we'll have a treat
to-day."

I soon had a fire burning, and then watched Uncle Dick as with sharp
knife and clever fingers he quickly skinned the four pigeons, placing
their skins where they would not dry, and then busying himself over the
birds.

"Won't you have some dinner first, uncle?" I said, for I was terribly
hungry.

"First? No, my boy, not till we have cooked it. You don't want to eat
your birds raw, do you?"

"What! are you going to eat those--those--"

"Pigeons?" he said, as I hesitated. "To be sure, Nat; why not? Do you
suppose that because birds have bright feathers they are not good to
eat?"

"Well, no, uncle," I replied, as I thought of pheasants, and that at one
time people used to eat the peacock; "but these birds have green
feathers." It was a very stupid remark, but it seemed the only thing I
could then say.

"Ah! they'll be none the worse for that, my bo